


White Shores are Calling

by apati_a



Series: To the End: To Valhalla [1]
Category: Hakuouki
Genre: Because I wanted a KC/HT fanfic and I couldn't really find any so I decided to make my own., M/M, Other, Semi-canonical tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 11:59:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10639407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apati_a/pseuds/apati_a
Summary: It was delusional, and Hijikata would remark that these thoughts of his were nothing more than villainous folly…but that was well with him. If delusions were all that he could have as the head of the Kazama clan, then he would accept them as well.





	

“Kazama-dono.” The familiar ringing of his name in his ear was like the faint whisper of one’s conscience: present yet open to the utter pretense that it was not heard. At times like these, and perhaps moreso on these days where the last sakura blossoms left their branches to rest at the feet of trees, he was all the more inclined to act upon the pretense of having never heard the deep bravado of Amagiri’s voice calling him out of one of many moments of silent considerations which did nothing more than draw out what he supposed would be a very lengthy eternity and in the same breath provide whimsical illusions of what he could not have. It was all the more easier to ignore Amagiri when all that he saw within the falling blossoms on such chilled evenings was hair like silky black ribbons being ruffled in the balmy breeze and the aristocratic poise of dark lavender eyes. Yes, he could ignore him for this kind of peace. And if he thought long enough, all the things which he had hoped for would become realized. It was delusional, and Hijikata would remark that these thoughts of his were nothing more than villainous folly…but that was well with him. If delusions were all that he could have as the head of the Kazama clan, then he would accept them as well.

It often seemed that although one could hold a position of higher status than most, the ability to grasp things that one truly desired were reduced greatly in its wake. All that came with the influence was superfluousness. It would have been easier to be born a poor man free to pursue anything without the thought of consequences and many hindrances than to be so high-born and kept in a whirlwind of which deprived one of all things that it desired.

Yet with this revelation, it did not change the fact that it was mere stubbornness that had swept it all away. It was not his own stubbornness, but it might as well had been. It had burned with the same intensity as _Meireki no taika_ and stole many lives in its wake. Even further, he himself had forsaken everything for a single falling blossom.

Lifting the _kiseru_ to his lips in idle thought, Kazama breathed in the fragrant, ashen smoke of burning opium poppy leaves before exhaling with lightened eased and allowing it to become one with the faintly growing chill of the evening air, a faint but solemn smile forming although hidden by the dying threads of daylight which hid the expression within mere shadows of silhouettes. He knew, however, that it was not lost at all to Amagiri’s piercing gaze behind him. “Autumn appears to be approaching its end.”

And yet he did not expect a response. It was an easily observable fact, yet there was meaning behind this which exceeded and extrapolated the simple statement.

Each cusp of autumn paving the wayside to winter reminded him of Hijikata in ways that were difficult to comprehend to anyone that was not himself or bore the same sense of fraternity. He was a warmth of sorts which eventually gave way to a fragile frigidity, much like the cooling of the arid, hot summer air which blew across Kyoto, or rather a reverse of the way in which mountain snow eventually melted and suffused to become one with a valley river. Kazama would admit that Hijikata was nothing so simple, and yet like him, he too lacked the skillful poise of words and eloquence which graced the fingers of the great poets to describe him any better than with over-used terms.

Still, the fading autumn remained no different than it had been from that very autumn day or the child that he had met so long ago. And as he contemplated on the faint scent of decaying blossoms and focused on the light breeze that caressed the expanse of his exposed thigh laid bare to the wind by the position in which he reclined with the fringes of his hair tickling his face like soft uncalloused fingers, it reminded him all the more of the past which he could never grasp. He could never grasp smoke and fleeting memories with his bare hands.

Japan continued on as he had recalled it from childhood memories. Quick to war, quick to destruction, and quick to rebuild. And just like that, so were the lives of the people which occupied the territories. His return to Edo at that time had been the beginnings of the understanding of his role as the future head of the clan, and like the noblest of sons, he had set upon himself the task of taking in all that his father had brought before him like an insect to the sweet nectar of springtime _sakurasou_. He had been born for this role, and he believed that those before him had given his name justly so. 千景: a thousand vistas; and like so, if he gazed back upon the past, he could see all that had led up to his existence in this present future in addition to all of the anticipatory hopes of the past. Or that was simply the sound of an unpleasant responsibility that had been avoided with hopes that he would in fact bring closure to the matter.

Yet still, it was due to Japan’s volatile human nature that his family had become the benefactor of a debt toward the Satsuma Faction, and with the pride he held, he had refused to retain a debt to those human beings for a time any longer than his own uprising into the seat of clan leader. But at that time, the debt was not the reason for his first arrival into Edo, and he had held no status of leadership either. His title like many sons of noblemen bore the acclaim “son of a nobleman”, and that title more often than most accounted for nothing but false hopes and promises being the case that many sons of noble birth simply rode the backs of their father and predecessor’s accomplishments while being useless retainers. But he had never been like that. He was ambitious and a vagrant entertainer of the idea of preserving his pureblooded oni heritage from his youth. He would marry a pureblooded oni woman and have strong oni heirs that would carry on the Kazama family name. In hindsight, it was a shallow goal if he had ever seen one, but it was the ambitious whimsical thinking he had held onto from his childhood.

Many oni families had mingled with humankind, and as a result, although the blood of their descendants were strong in their own rights, it was weaker than those of pure blood. Still, if he had foreseen that he would accomplish neither of those things, he would not have spent such a large quantity of time attempting to fulfill a goal that he himself would lay down—cast aside as though it had never been—for the sake of an oni and one lacking the nobility which carried through within the veins of purebloods.

But what was lacking had been invariably replaced with an inextinguishable pride.

Pride.

Pride.

More pride.

All of the pride was hefted upon those eerily disgruntled lips belied by aristocratic, passionate eyes.

It was that oni pride which had captivated him, truly. Yet, it was also that very pride that had done nothing more than cause a dishonorable death—a human’s death not worthy of an oni at all. And, if Kazama could have had it all his way—if Fortune had seen fit to heft upon him any number of blessings—his arms would now be filled with soothing warmth on this cold night filled with the last fragrant blossoms of sakura.

If only….

* * *

 

Leaves tittered quietly under the gentle touch of the wind, sunrays reflecting through the various gaps in the low-lying canopy like a whimsical trope of dancers. Late spring had set in, slowly giving rise to the soon to be unbearable warmth of summertime. And yet, the temperature did not matter to the child which hefted a branch no more than the length of his own arms repeatedly through the air as though it too were a great sword. His arms ached with the repetitive strain he brought upon them, small streams of light sweat accumulating on a brow that was far too serious to the point of comicality even to Kazama’s eyes. The way the child’s hair clung to his face were just as amusing—clearly annoying him with the way it would flittering into his visions, but ignoring nonetheless for a potentially greater goal. And yet, he was nothing more than a disgraceful remnant of reduced blood.

It was like a faint scene from an innocent performance, however: nothing too prominent, but neither something so insignificant as to be easily forgotten. Of all of the time he had spent in Japan as of recently, he had failed to stumble upon any other oni aside from those which accompanied him and the princess of the East, Senhime, whom had been nothing more than a prepubescent little girl. Full-blooded oni and female oni were rarities of their own variety, yet half-oni children were as rare as the most coveted pieces of jade ornaments handed down through imperial families—as rare as the forgery of swords left to the heir of oni families. Most oni children which had been conceived—as far as he had been told—were often killed (this being particularly true of the West). He had suspected that this were the case in the East as well, but to find one at such an age attempting to bloom into what might be fine progeny was as equally unexpected.

But he was an oni of the West here to take his place also as the oni of the East—wretched half-princess and all be burnt for their blight upon the oni name. However, as much as it annoyed him, disgraceful half-wit oni child or no, this child had potential, if not in his determination then it was potential in his prideful stance, refusing to reflect the tiredness which reflected in the faint quivering of his developing muscles. He had a while yet before he was ready to swing a sword like a true man of the Way. Even then, he could never compare to a true oni. That was all there was to it.

Stepping forward with the light crunch of leaves, Amagiri inclined his head, expression as passive as it had been since he had fallen in debt with the Kazama heir. “Kazama-dono… Shall I?” The essential question behind Amagiri’s words were something to be ignored.

He could, if he willed, rid their oni name of such a blight, however, it was not his right to do so. At the time, at least. He had not yet inherited his place as the head of the Kazama family, but he could be certain that he would erase those blights when he had the chance.

Kazama momentarily eyed the child whom had, in a flurry of momentary withheld panic, turned around to face them, short stick in hand. Briefly, as though on a whim, he finds the mildest curiosities, almost finding himself irate that an oni would also not guard their own child which they had failed to gracefully end. Knowing their child to be a blight, the least a parent could do was to spare their child from the treacherous life which awaited them as something neither oni nor human. He could, however, tell from the child’s tense stance with shoulders drawn up tightly as eyes calculatingly glanced between himself and Amagiri as though he may be able to chance an escape. But still, although wary to the trained eye, the boy maintained an aggressive posture. The wariness was understandable given the times.

“There is no need.” Kazama murmured, stepping forward a few paces to regard the child whose lips were now pursed shut in a deep frown. “…your name, boy?”

The corner of the boy’s lips declined further with his elegant lips drown together in fine confusion at the question. If Kazama were not an oni, he would have easily mistaken the child for a young female, he was certain of that.

“…Toshizō.” The reply had came after several silent moments of concentrated staring and offhanded glances, appraising potential escape routes through violet eyes. The child was prepared to run if he had. It was not so uncommon that boys were kidnapped and forced as either servants, samurai to Satsuma and Choshu Domains, or sent to act as members of the shogunate’s forced. Even children were too young to remain at peace and out of the way of a war.

“I don’t care to know your given name.” Kazama’s stare remained firm, waiting for the appropriate answer which he anticipated would come.

As though his brow’s could not possibly furrow any further than they had done previously, the boy raises his finger accusingly in annoyance. “Shouldn’t the one who wants to know the name offer their name first? Don’t ask for what you do not wish to hear, either.”

Somewhere deep in the cosmos the child knew that he was certain to be struck down for his impetuous, no-nonsense insolent nature. He prayed to Buddha by the graces of his hair that today would not become his last. Somewhere deep in the cosmos, he is certain that the misplaced piece of seaweed which accompanied this man was that very voice with its highly miffed chortle in the background, chorusing to him that his insolence may very well be the death of him.

The corner of Kazami’s lips curved faintly with innocently granted amusement as he took several steps forward, placing his hand on the sword held at his side with finely tuned concentration, watching the unmistakable weariness which wafted off the young boy in droves while his face and posture betrayed nothing. Undeniably, however, was the curious glimmer in the child's eyes as he watched the movement of the two swords at his hips.

"Kazama…of Ezo."  He wouldn't kill this child anymore than its oni parent did. He was valuable as a child, and time would prove if that oni value would remain true. If proven otherwise in the future, he would deal with it, he told himself. After all, this was all upon his own discretionary whim. "Kazama Chikage."

Toshizō contemplated the name for a brief moment. It sounded nice enough. It seemed gentle enough as well, at least enough to not think he was some man with a strange reputation. Ezo, according to his brother's wife, was a very beautiful place and was as also home to a very small number esteemed clans.

"Kazama-san... Chikage- _oniisan_?" A hand lifted to the boy’s lips as he laughed with easy humor. The child's humor went beyond him certainly. "I like it. ...Both. Hijikata Toshizō... I am."

The last name was not familiar, and at the very least it was a human's family name. The oni which had sired the child had probably never bothered to stay around past the time that they had had the child. If it had been a female oni, she possibly no doubt hid the child's birth along with her pregnancy, but they were known for benevolence—they could never simply kill their own child.

"When I am head of the Kazama clan, you will bear my family name if you become worthy of it." He could already feel Amagiri’s silent bewilderment but paid it no attention. It was always good for any being to have goals. Perhaps this could become an important one to give good results…in the uncertain future, he supposed. "Become strong and prideful."

"Why would I want your family name? I have my own family." Hijikata felt awfully suspicious, hands still never leaving the shortened stick which he held upon. Midori had always told him that a true swordsman never put down his blade, especially in the face of another until it was decided upon as to whether they were friend or foe—well, in not so many words and surely in a non-literal application, but he felt that he were justified to become literal in this moment .

"Human lives are fragile. And when you lose everything,” Kazama paused briefly in contemplation, “You'll have the Kazama name to turn to."

"That may be true,” Hijikata lowers a hand from the stick, pointing it, however, as equally fiercely with determination one might find only in a child—innocently naïve, yet filled with hope, “but when I'm older, I'll surely be able to kick your ass some day and _strip_ _you_ of your family name. "

Straightening up his posture, Kazama removed a longsword from his side, though certainly not his clan's shortsword and extended it to the child. "If you think yourself capable in the future, I bid you favor. Take up my sword and attempt to do so when you are older. If you can harm me, you will be even more welcomed to bear the Kazama name."

Hijikata gingerly extracted the sword from the man's hands, uncertain if he found the man worthy of utmost respect or at best slightly lunaticish, but he wouldn't turn down the sword. He had always wanted one and soon enough he would be able to practice in Satō's dojo with Midori's approval. "Will you even remember me when I'm older?” A momentary pause as violet eyes reflected on the polished sheath. “Grey clouds often leave rain behind."

And Kazama considers for that brief moment that perhaps, he has made his first successful investment in his future as soon-to-be head of the clan. Just like the first grasses of spring, upright and poised, he begins making his way to the clearing’s edge, leaving the child behind with nothing but seemingly superficial promises for a future which may never come. "On my pride and my name, as Kazama Chikage, oni of the West."

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, I don’t know what to say except, I decided to make Hijikata a half-oni…because yeah. There’s plot. Lots of semi-canonical plot. Ah, hope you all liked it? Until next chapter~


End file.
